


upstate

by beili, Val Mora (valmora)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Honeymoon, M/M, Marriage, Modern AU, non-spy au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5945968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beili/pseuds/beili, https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya puts the plate down on the wooden benches on the dock, then sits next to it, stretching his legs out. Napoleon sets the beers next to the cookies – that seems neatly symbolic of his life, and he kind of likes it – and then looks at Illya, all lit up by the setting sun, shadows stretched long behind him and the span of his muscles laid out like a picture. His wedding ring gleams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	upstate

**Author's Note:**

> In deference to modern standard transliteration, IK's given name is rendered as "Ilya" throughout this fic, though we've used the fandom's customary spelling in the tags and summary.

The cicadas' thrum is loud in the brush, and the sky is bright with sun. Napoleon isn't sure where the good weather came from. It should be raining.

He's not going to protest, though. The old grill in the backyard, left by some relative after a rowdy Fourth of July Napoleon might, or might not, remember, is still serviceable, and there's charcoal in the garage. Between the farmstand late-summer corn and squash, and the steaks they bought on the drive up, he doesn't think dinner is going to be an embarrassment.

An audible thump: Ilya depositing salad on the table, and a dish of butter for the corn.

Napoleon glances over and gets caught. Again, like usual. Maybe, he hopes, like he always will.

Ilya's in jeans and serviceable boots – damn it, Napoleon really shouldn't have told him that one – and a white undershirt, narrow hips and wide shoulders, deeply unpolished and devastatingly handsome.

"Not ready yet," Napoleon says.

"I know." Ilya gives him a gentle look, most of a smile without his mouth moving. "It smells good."

"It'd better."

"I know better than to insult your cooking."

"'course you do. You're – " and Napoleon's voice fails him as his mind catches up, the usual endings: _marrying me in six months - three months - three weeks - tomorrow,_ all passed. "Married to me," he says, instead, breathless with joy.

Ilya sounds just as pleased when he says, "I am."

Napoleon drops the grill spatula on the table. "C'mere." He holds one hand out. Ilya takes it, the sudden bemused little furrow between his eyebrows fading when Napoleon rubs his thumb against Ilya's wedding ring before turning his hand over to kiss the inside of his wrist.

" _Napoleon_ ," Ilya says, a rich heated depth to all the vowels, as he slides a hand into Napoleon's hair and moves with him into a kiss.

 

"I can't believe how many people gave us wedding presents," Napoleon says, later, letting his feet dangle over the edge of the dock into the water.

"You should have taken your mother's advice." Ilya passes him back the bottle of beer they've been sharing. Neither of them wanted to go back up to the house to get more.

Napoleon spreads his hands. "It would've unbalanced the design."

"Yeah," Ilya agrees, considering and slow in this old debate. Napoleon hopes they keep bickering about it for the next year. "I could've made a registry."

"You can't ask for sexy computer hardware for your wedding."

"Three immersion blenders is better?"

Napoleon finishes the beer except for the last mouthful, mostly in revenge. "I'll admit I may have complained about ours to some people."

"I know," Ilya says. There's a long silence. Napoleon drinks half the last mouthful. "The deep-dish pizza pan was…"

"A dick move," Napoleon grits out, and hands the beer back over.

"You're such a food snob," Ilya says, very fondly, before finishing the bottle.

"I'm going to make quiche in it and send her photos. You want another?"

"If you're volunteering to go get it." Ilya rolls the bottle down to Napoleon's hip. Napoleon puts a hand on Ilya's thigh and uses it to leverage himself up so he can stand.

It's a very muscled thigh, and the way it clenches under the pressure of his weight is particularly nice.

"Same again?" he offers, bending to pick up the empty bottle.

"Whatever's good."

"Okay." He takes the old wooden stairs up to the house, avoiding the step whose nails are starting to come out. Should probably fix that before they go. There are some basic tools in the garage.

The screen door creaks as he opens it and steps up into the kitchen. He grabs a couple of beers from the fridge before he pauses, the door still ajar, braced against his hip to keep it from closing. He could bring three. Share the third, pressing the bottle into each other's hands, a quiet intimacy. He liked that, the easy give and take of it.

He takes three, putting them on the countertop next to the trays of cookies, which are cool now, so he puts them on a plate, tucks the third beer into his elbow, and brings all of it down to the dock.

Ilya sits up when he sees Napoleon coming, then stands and meets him at the last stair. Gives Napoleon a kiss at the same time as he relieves him of the plate of cookies.

"Three beers?" he says, and Napoleon shrugs.

"I liked sharing."

Ilya puts the plate down on the wooden built-in viewing benches at the land end of the dock, then sits next to it, stretching his legs out. Napoleon sets the beers next to the cookies – that seems neatly symbolic of his life, and he kind of likes it – and then looks at Ilya, all lit up by the setting sun, shadows stretched long behind him and the span of his muscles laid out like a picture. His wedding ring gleams.

Napoleon leans in, bracing himself against the back of the bench, and kisses him. Not long, just long enough for Ilya to reach up to touch his shoulders, before Napoleon shakes his touch off and rights himself.

"Let me in," he says, and Ilya uncrosses his legs, just like that, just so Napoleon can step between them and sink to his knees.

He rucks up Ilya's shirt, first, and presses his forehead against Ilya's stomach, just resting there. Lets himself breathe.

Ilya strokes a hand through his hair. His fingertips slide against Napoleon's scalp, firm but not hard. Napoleon leans into it.

"I love you," he says into Ilya's skin, then sits back up again.

"You too." Ilya leaves his hand where it is.

Napoleon doesn't mind. He does mind Ilya's belt. It looks good, but if this is going to happen, it has to go. Napoleon really does not need it hitting his face.

"Belt off," he orders, and works Ilya's jeans open, slides them down his hips and fumbles open the fly of his boxers while Ilya gets the belt out of its loops and drops it onto the bench before sitting back down.

Ilya's half-hard, the grey metal of the zipper nearly framing him from this angle, and Napoleon looks up all the span of Ilya's body to meet his gaze past it.

Ilya's mouth crooks. He drags his thumb along the shell of Napoleon's ear. "Pretty please," he says, and Napoleon _can't_ , he can't stop smiling, has to drag his knuckles up Ilya's length and his fingertips back down before he can lean forward and kiss him.

He goes slow, more because he wants to make this last than because he wants to be gentle. Ilya likes the catch of zipper teeth, when he's turned on enough; he doesn't need gentleness. But Napoleon likes slow, likes being able to work his way along Ilya's cock, slide his foreskin down and lip softly at the head and listen to hear if his breathing changes.

If Ilya's got any complaints, he's never said.

Napoleon lets his eyes close so he can focus, keeping his touch shallow as he works them both up. Until Ilya's wet with spit and precome, Napoleon's palm damp with it, and his jaw aches, and he'll be tasting Ilya for hours.

There's a soft thump, with a metallic click: Ilya must've put his hand on the bench, the way he does sometimes to stop himself from grabbing Napoleon, and struck his wedding ring on the wood.

His wedding ring, twin to the one on Napoleon's left hand. Memory of watching Ilya slide it onto his finger, both of them with steady hands and carefully even breathing despite pounding hearts: he'd seen the flicker of the pulse at Ilya's throat. Making already-given promises to each other in front of witnesses.

He's so hard it aches, and Ilya's so close. He presses down, deeper, messy, speeds a little, and Ilya comes, a sharp tension cutting through him before it eases.

Napoleon licks most of it up before he pulls off, but it's a lost cause. Ilya's a mess. So's Napoleon, for that matter.

There's always skinny dipping, he supposes. There are a few houses on the lake, but not many.

Ilya pets his hair, and Napoleon lays his head on Ilya's hip.

"Thank you," Ilya says.

"Mm." Napoleon clears his throat, wetly. "You looked good."

"Come up here." Ilya tugs a little, not enough to hurt, and Napoleon creaks his way to standing. He's going to need knee pads for this in fewer years than he wants to think about. He's visibly hard through his pants, too.

Ilya pushes the plate of cookies and the beers out of the way, then drags his jeans up enough that he has to tuck himself back in, although he doesn't do up his fly. When he looks back up at Napoleon, he's still flushed, but his voice is steady when he says, "How do you want it?"

Napoleon has to consider that. It's difficult to choose: the hot-wet intensity of Ilya's mouth; the aching rough closeness of rocking against each other; the calloused slide of his hand; the slick drag of pressing into him. Any of a dozen different positions.

He shakes his head. "Not right now."

"Okay," Ilya says. His eyes are soft, and he reaches to take Napoleon's hand, rubbing his thumb over the veins at Napoleon's wrist. "Cookie?"

Sugar and chocolate overlaid on the salt of Ilya's come: gross. He shakes his head.

"Hey," Ilya says, gentle, and stands to kiss him, arm draped over Napoleon's shoulders, fingers of his other hand tangling between Napoleon's. There's a careful distance between their bodies, though, Ilya trying not to press against Napoleon's dick.

Napoleon seams them together. The weight of their bodies together makes his breath catch, but Ilya backs away when Napoleon tries to deepen the kiss.

"You want to go swimming?" he offers. There's a smile in the words, and he presses a light, quick kiss to the corner of Napoleon's mouth.

"You better hope nobody's watching," Napoleon says. Ilya snorts.

"What did you think I was doing on my morning runs?"

"Working up a sweat I could lick off you," Napoleon says, like he didn't scope out the other houses on the lake by boat. _He_ has a mild case of well-managed PTSD. Ilya is professionally paranoid.

"That too," Ilya acknowledges, letting go of him to start stripping. His shoulder muscles bunch when he drags the shirt up, and the trail of hair along his sternum and down his belly is an invitation.

Napoleon drags the backs of his fingers down Ilya's chest while Ilya pulls the shirt over his head and drops it on the dock.

"No buyer's remorse?" Ilya catches Napoleon's hand, tucking his knuckles into Napoleon's palm.

"Couldn't return you even if I wanted to." Napoleon tightens his grasp on Ilya's fingers, then lets go to start unbuttoning his own shirt. "Besides, nobody'd believe it wasn't consummated."

To say the least. He catches sight of Ilya's wicked little smirk – as though Ilya didn't spend most of the morning after their wedding gasping out his pleasure and alternately begging and forbidding Napoleon to touch his cock – and returns it.

"No, they wouldn't," Ilya says.

Napoleon shrugs his shirt off, and starts pulling his undershirt up, before Ilya catches him, pushes his arms back down. The shirt stays rucked up to just under his ribs.

"You look good like this," Ilya says, leaning in and kissing his temple.

Napoleon turns to kiss his mouth and hums inquisitively. Never let it be said that he misses the opportunity to fish for praise.

"Your neck," Ilya says. "I don't know why you wear ties."

"Or collared shirts, or anything at all ever." Napoleon laughs against Ilya's jaw. "You like me best naked in bed."

"Not naked." Ilya presses a hand to the small of Napoleon's back, thumb rubbing along his spine. "You can wear your ring."

Something between a laugh and a sob catches in Napoleon's throat, and he kisses Ilya again, longer and deeper and lingering.

When Napoleon pulls away, Ilya follows him a little, then comes back to himself and opens his eyes, settling back.

"C'mon," Napoleon says, stripping off his undershirt, and goes for his pants.

Ilya finishes getting undressed while Napoleon's still wrangling with his underwear, and is already in the water by the time Napoleon's sitting on the edge of the dock, feet wet, mustering the wherewithal to put the rest of his body in. The water's not exactly warm.

Ilya wraps a wet hand around Napoleon's ankle. "C'mon," he says, smiling up through clumped eyelashes, water sheened over his skin. "It's shallow. And warm enough."

"Says you," Napoleon retorts, and slips into the water.

It's exactly as cool as he was afraid it was going to be, and is _hell_ on a hard-on.

"Fuck," he gasps, surfacing, and shivers against Ilya's chest. "Do you know, that whole teenage cold-shower thing? I didn't do that."

"Somehow I'm not surprised," Ilya drawls, but he brushes Napoleon's hair back, so he's more amused than anything else. "I'd worry so much about getting caught that I couldn't finish."

Napoleon grins, nosing against the softness just below Ilya's jaw, petting at the dip of his spine at the small of his back. "Poor frustrated teenage Ilya."

"My poor mother, who had to deal with me," Ilya corrects, nipping at the shell of Napoleon's ear, and then lets go of him, stepping away in the water. "Race you to that buoy?"

"What's the prize?"

Ilya shrugs. "Cookies? Dishes?"

"Tomorrow's grocery run," Napoleon offers, and Ilya nods.

"All right." He pauses a moment, then says, "Ready – set – go –"

Napoleon is pretty good at swimming, if he does say so himself, and the raw joy of breathing in rhythm with the strokes, his whole body working, feels amazing. A little like freedom.

He touches the buoy a moment before Ilya does, and draws his head up out of the water, shoving hair out of his eyes, only to have Ilya rest one hand on the side of his face and kiss him, quick, at the corner of his mouth.

"Just for that," Ilya says, "I'm going to forget to buy rice tomorrow."

"No you won't," Napoleon says. "C'mon, let's go in, I want a warm shower."

Ilya follows him back to the dock, hauling himself out of the water with a lovely bunching of muscles and water streaming down his back, like some kind of nymph in a pornographic classical painting.

Napoleon pats his ass and gets out of the water while Ilya picks up their clothes. Napoleon gets the cookies and the beers, and they walk naked up the stairs back to the house.

Napoleon definitely tracks mud through the kitchen on his way to the shower, which he's going to have to clean up later, but – well. The way the last few days have been going, he can make sure to be on all fours, cleaning, when Ilya gets home, and Ilya will take the liberties Napoleon wants him to.

Ilya slips into the shower a few moments after Napoleon gets in, and he blocks the stream of water.

"There you are," Napoleon says, stretching onto his toes to kiss him. Ilya opens to him, easy and sweet, arms wrapping around Napoleon to hold him up.

"Here I am," Ilya echoes after they part, voice warm enough to make Napoleon's heart ache. Napoleon took his wedding ring off and left it on the bathroom counter, some part of him frightened that it would slip off his finger and fall down the drain, but Ilya's still wearing his, and Napoleon turns it with his thumb.

Next summer he'll have a tan line there. They both will.

"All right," Napoleon says. He kisses the side of Ilya's neck and reaches past him for the soap. "Shower time."

The cap on the soap clicks open and he spills some into his hand before smoothing it down Ilya's back. Ilya gets, somehow, closer, and breathes against Napoleon's ear.

"You could turn around," Napoleon suggests, a little dry.

"Mm." Ilya kisses his temple and steps away, turning so Napoleon can slide his soap-slick hand over Ilya's skin.

They've done this before – Napoleon likes the careful, learning intimacy, the lack of shame or need to prove themselves to each other – and the ease this time is no exception.

Ilya has haunting shoulder blades, slid tight under his skin so that they feel like power and grace when he moves. Napoleon drags his fingers along the bounds of Ilya's bones, feeling him shift with the touch.

He drags his hands down, and just as he's finishing rinsing the soap off Ilya's skin, he rises onto his toes and kisses the back of Ilya's neck.

Ilya turns in the middle to kiss him, hands curving at the backs of Napoleon's thighs to help him balance, while Napoleon grabs at his shoulders to prop himself up, and when they part, Ilya's eyes open slowly.

Napoleon goes back flat on his feet, Ilya's hands sliding up warm and wet to the small of his back, and strokes a finger down Ilya's nose, then over his cheekbone, along his jaw.

"Hello, darling." Ilya's smile is wide, voice teasing.

"Did you have a good day, honey?" Napoleon picks up the soap, flutters his eyelashes in a simper.

"Yes," Ilya says, very warmly. "How was yours?"

God, Napoleon loves him. "I think it's getting even better. C'mon, let me wash you."

Ilya kisses the tip of his nose and submits to having his face stroked with soap, then rinsed as Napoleon makes his way down Ilya's body. Neck, shoulders, chest, hips, a gentle matter-of-fact stroke at his cock.

Napoleon kneels in the shower to wash Ilya's legs.

He used to worry about how unbothered he was about this position for oral sex, but he's never felt demeaned by it, and Ilya's never seemed to think he should be, either. Like the configurations of their bodies have no meaning beyond pleasure. Napoleon loves that about him.

He strokes his soapy hands down Ilya's calves, caresses the bones of his ankles, the spaces between his toes, then back up, and he stands.

Ilya's eyes are dreamily bright with arousal, and he kisses Napoleon's temple as he takes the soap.

Ilya’s less matter-of-fact with Napoleon, hands lingering, petting his shoulders and sides and thighs.

" _There_ you are," Napoleon sighs, when Ilya starts to wash between his legs, fingers brushing lightly against his rim. "You should probably go, let me take care of it."

Ilya scrunches his nose. Napoleon's glad he's not squeamish, but seriously, this is personal and really unsexy.

"Go, you." Napoleon kisses the tip of his nose and nudges him out of the stream of water. "Think about that side-channel attack that had you up in flames last week."

"That's going to make me talk about cybersecurity, not sex," Ilya says, then squints at him suspiciously.

Napoleon grins at him.

Ilya rolls his eyes, kisses Napoleon easily, and goes.

When Napoleon gets out, Ilya's reading in bed, still-damp hair mussed, chest bare. He's got the covers pulled up to his waist, but it's not doing much to disguise what's going on below them.

Napoleon crawls into bed on top of him, straddling his thighs. "Whatcha reading?"

"Stephenson. He has a crush on Alan Turing; it's very obvious."

"We should all have crushes on Alan Turing," Napoleon says, because he knows what side of that conversation his bread is buttered on.

Ilya raises an eyebrow at him, because he knows exactly when Napoleon's talking total bullshit, and lets the book close.

"I think," he says, more sweetly than Napoleon was expecting, "that I much prefer you."

Napoleon's heart thumps, and he leans forward for a kiss. It doesn't go well: he overbalances and collapses against Ilya's chest, chin digging into a very hard collarbone.

He mouths, squished, into Ilya's neck, "Hey there." There's a small brick of a paperback digging into his lower stomach. His back's in an arch he only puts up with when Ilya's riding him hard.

Ilya laughs. "Smooth," he drawls, and helps Napoleon back up into some facsimile of a reasonable position, if by 'help' Napoleon means 'nudges a little and gropes a lot.' Napoleon's dick decides it likes this course of events, a mindset of which Napoleon wholly approves.

They end up lying down, Napoleon on top, Ilya massaging at the tendons of his neck, hand spread broad over the top of Napoleon's spine and fingers occasionally brushing through his hair.

Napoleon stretches out and relaxes. "Keep doing that."

Ilya snorts, somewhere above his head, and pushes a little harder. Napoleon groans as something in his back unknots.

"Vacation's good for you," Ilya observes. "Less muscle tension."

"No kidding." Napoleon shifts to reduce the pressure of Ilya's hip on his thigh. "Can't imagine why not worrying about metrics for a week is – oh, there, yeah."

"Shameless," Ilya says fondly, kissing his temple. "Let me up and I'll do it right."

Napoleon, because Ilya gives great back massages, slides off him and lies facedown on the mattress.

"Someday," Ilya sighs, "you are going to attack me with some kind of sex couch under the guise of massage."

Napoleon grunts. Tried that with an ex, didn't like it. It was hell on his back, and her orgasms weren't better enough that it seemed worth it.

"I'm taking that as agreement," Ilya says, kissing the shell of his ear.

Napoleon makes a more definitively protesting grunt into the sheets, cut off by Ilya finally getting his hands on him. He heaves a breath, open-mouthed and silent, and relaxes by degrees into the press of Ilya’s hands.

Ilya starts at the center of his back, where his tension gets tied into his spine, gentle long strokes up to his shoulders.

“Tell me if it’s bad-hurt,” Ilya says quietly, and starts to push a little harder.

Napoleon grunts to acknowledge it and lets himself bend under the force. Ilya was right, though: he really is less tense than usual.

He feels like some kind of putty by the time Ilya’s strokes lighten and lengthen again, tracing down his spine, and by the time Ilya’s gone from there to pushing skin-warm slick fingers against him, there isn’t any tension left from his neck to his knees.

He sighs into the sheets and enjoys Ilya tracing easy little circles over him, like they could do this all night. Like Napoleon wouldn’t get impatient first.

Ilya kisses the back of his neck as he slides a finger in, and Napoleon bows his head a little further, pressing his nape against Ilya’s lips.

"Like this?" Ilya asks.

"Yeah." Like Napoleon brings out the bright gentleness in him as well as the rough consuming lust.

“Okay.” Another kiss, softer, and Ilya sits back on the mattress, which shifts under him. Napoleon spreads a little further, relaxing, and breathes into the bedsheets.

Ilya goes slow, and Napoleon lets him. This part is - it feels good, always does; Ilya has clever hands. It feels weird to not put on a show, maybe. To just lie there and enjoy it honestly.

It’s better like this.

Ilya stops moving, fingers still inside him. “Okay?”

Napoleon licks his lips. His mouth is dry. He swallows. “Yeah.”

“It sounded like you were in pain.” He smooths a hand over Napoleon’s thigh, slow, heavy enough it doesn’t tickle.

“Grinding into -” a noise rises out of the back of his throat as Ilya starts moving again, stretching him a little harder, “the bed, all relaxed from a massage, getting fingered by my husband -” Ilya makes the noise, this time, “I’m good.”

“Good. Sit up,” Ilya says.

If Ilya makes him work himself on Ilya’s hand, the rest of this honeymoon is going to be pretty rough for both of them. Ilya’s always flirting with the edge of carpal tunnel, and Napoleon’s gonna be sore from how long it’ll take.

“You’re sure?”

“I want to try to make you come untouched,” Ilya says.

“Fuck.” Napoleon grinds into the bed a little, reflexively, and Ilya drags over his prostate. “That was _once_. And I was _twenty_.”

“And you were masturbating,” Ilya says. “I remember.”

“It’s not gonna work.”

The mattress shifts, and Ilya presses a kiss between his shoulderblades, over the back of his heart.

“Then it won’t work,” he says, the depth of his voice vibrating against Napoleon’s lungs. “But we’ll enjoy making sure.”

“Yeah.” Napoleon presses his open mouth against the sheets, bracing himself, then turns his head enough to say, “Hang on for a second.”

Ilya slows, stops, sits back up. He’s still got Napoleon’s not sure how many fingers in, and now that Napoleon’s listening, he can hear how hard Ilya’s breathing.

Napoleon kneels up and looks back. Ilya’s bright red and looking at his own hand. He’s got a thumb up against Napoleon’s rim, just rubbing along it, and it makes Napoleon feel a little wild with desire, with wanting to be stretched tight around him.

“Okay, keep going,” Napoleon says, letting his head drop and closing his eyes.

Ilya hums, spreading a hand over the small of Napoleon's back as he pulls out before adding even more lube. The slide back in is like a dream, close and easy.

Napoleon pushes back into the next stroke, shifting his knees wider on the mattress, and Ilya runs a hand over his hip and keeps going, harder now. Even so, it’s still almost a tease, the brush of Ilya’s fingers inside him, knuckles a blunt pressure outside on the depth of every stroke.

“You’re going to feel so good,” Napoleon says, because if he doesn’t start throwing images in, this experiment’s going to fail. “Hot and deep and _hard_ , and I’ll take it, I’ll have to take it, I want to -” and Ilya makes a noise that’s something between a swear and a groan, but doesn’t do anything more than that. If anything, he’s going slower.

Napoleon rocks back into his touch, trying to match his rhythm, but Ilya stops, fingertips resting just inside, before starting again as Napoleon goes still.

“Talk to me,” Napoleon says, because Ilya likes him moving, normally. Sometimes even when what they’re trying means Napoleon shouldn’t.

Ilya heaves a breath. “Just distracted,” he says, and his voice is thick, and very slow, like he’s thinking, so Napoleon waits.

“I don’t want this to end,” Ilya says, finally, and Napoleon’s chest hurts, for a moment, enough that he drags one arm up and reaches back far enough that he can catch Ilya's hand, though Ilya lets go after kissing his palm.

“You’ve got me until we’re sick of each other,” Napoleon says.

Ilya kisses the small of his back. “I love you.”

Napoleon makes a noise of acknowledgement, the high-low of _you, too_ , as Ilya pulls his fingers out. The mattress shifts as Ilya moves, kneeling a little closer. He sets a hand on Napoleon’s hip, and then Ilya’s nudging at him, knees bumped up against Napoleon’s own and his cock dragging in, a heavy slick slide of heat and stretch.

Napoleon pushes back onto him, into the tightening of Ilya’s hands on his hips and the sound of his breathing getting sharper.

He wants to let himself skid down onto the mattress, let the force of Ilya’s thrusts grind him into the bed until he comes messy and caught under Ilya’s weight, but Ilya asked. And - Napoleon wants it, as much as he wants to give Ilya what he asks for. It felt luxurious and filthy and shocking when he did it before, and being able to do it for Ilya would be. Filthy and hot and amazing, probably. 

Ilya’ll make this noise, like he’s so turned on he’s in pain, and say Napoleon’s name with that breathless marveling insistence right before he comes, too.

The bed shifts as Ilya leans forward, over Napoleon’s back; Napoleon drops to his elbows and shudders at the way it makes Ilya feel, even though he isn’t moving.

Ilya runs a hand through Napoleon’s hair. “Okay?”

“Very okay.”

Another brush through his hair, and then Ilya’s hands are on the mattress next to Napoleon’s shoulders, Ilya kissing the back of his neck, sweet and then less gentle as Ilya starts to move again.

Ilya’s mouth is open, lips dragging at the knob at the top of his spine, and Napoleon wishes Ilya would just lick him there, would just move his mouth, would do more than tease, and Ilya pushes deep and rocks slowly there, little thrusts and the pressure of his hipbones on Napoleon’s skin, just as his tongue flicks out.

Napoleon heaves a breath like he’s been underwater, and Ilya licks him again before mouthing at one of the tendons at the side of his neck, firm but not a bite, no pain at all. It makes Napoleon gasp again, dick pulsing for a moment, the urge to press his neck against Ilya’s mouth making him tighten, and Ilya says, “There we go.”

It takes him a minute to get himself back online, especially because every time Ilya draws out a little, he pauses just inside Napoleon and rubs up against his prostate for a couple strokes before he slides in to the hilt again.

“Good,” Napoleon manages, except then Ilya’s going slow, obviously trying to drive Napoleon crazy.

“Yeah?” Ilya says. He presses a kiss to the back of Napoleon’s neck, then a few more, lingering and soft.

“Yeah.” Napoleon sighs and relaxes against him, and Ilya makes a rough noise and speeds up a little, mouth opening. His breath is hot and damp, and the lube is making slick noises that leave Napoleon feeling debauched and definitely hungry for more.

Ilya kisses his neck again, a whole rough row of them along the top of his spine that he follows with his tongue, and Napoleon’s whole body lights up with it, dick heavy and the slide of Ilya inside him suddenly bright with urgency, and he doesn’t quite manage to say anything to tell Ilya to keep going, but Ilya must sense it, because he doesn’t stop, leaving open-mouthed kisses and nips of his teeth, sharp little points of pain so good it’s pleasure; he doesn’t stop moving and he doesn’t stop at the back of his neck and it’s -

“You can do this,” Ilya says, and bites him.

By the time Napoleon’s gotten his breath back and can hear anything over the sensation of his own orgasm, Ilya’s kneeling up again, petting the small of Napoleon’s back, and still inside him.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Napoleon says. His voice cracks in the middle. “Did you - “

Ilya hums in agreement and pulls out, slowly. Napoleon is going to be so sore, and he doesn’t care. Sure, he had to spend a good few hours turned on beforehand, and his neck probably looks like he got mauled by a wild animal, but.

He collapses onto his side, managing to avoid the mess on the sheets, when Ilya’s out, and looks up. Ilya’s hair is a mess, but his flush is fading, a little, not that that’s saying much; he’s pink all through his collarbones. His dick shines with lube and a little come, smears of it on his stomach and thighs, and probably in his pubic hair, fuck, it is _way_ too early to even be thinking about getting turned on again.

Ilya’s eyes are crinkled up with a smile.

“Hey,” Napoleon says, and opens his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> [beili on tumblr](http://beili.tumblr.com)   
>  [val on tumblr](http://val-mora.tumblr.com)


End file.
